


Starting to Happen

by pandoras_chaos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Character Study, Coitus Interruptus, Drunken Confessions, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John and Greg are Bros, Lestrade-centric, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2349422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock peered at him through a curtain of dark curls, his head slightly tilted to the side as he looked over Greg with a hint of begrudging respect. Greg allowed the scrutiny, invasive and uncomfortable as it was. For some ungodly reason, he felt weirdly responsible for the kid’s welfare, and he wondered absently if he should get his head examined.</p><p>“Why are you helping me?” Sherlock asked eventually.</p><p>“God help me, I’m not entirely sure,” Greg huffed with a sardonic smile. He gave an unwilling chuckle and stuck his hand through the bars, an open invitation. Sherlock stared down at his hand, a look of utmost hesitation etched across his features before he cautiously slid his warm palm into Greg’s grip, pumping once before letting go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starting to Happen

**Author's Note:**

> This story just kind of popped into my head in the shower last week and wouldn't leave me alone until I sat down to write it. Unbeta-ed and entirely raw. Thanks as ever to the wonderful [Ariane DeVere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/) for the canon dialogue. 
> 
> Title borrowed from Elbow.

**Starting to Happen**

  
  
Greg sighed and stared into the paper cup of sludge between his palms. The Yard insisted on calling it coffee, but Greg wasn’t about to go splitting hairs at— he squinted at his watch—half one in the morning. His cubicle wall was little inspiration; the relevant crime scene photos tacked to the cork board in a kind of grim decor. He felt like he’d been working this case for ages and getting absolutely nowhere. Probably because that’s exactly what was happening.  
  
“Oi, Lestrade!” someone shouted. Greg sighed again and looked up from his mug, hoping it was DI Reynolds telling him to go home and get some rest. While he wanted to go with every fiber of his being, he didn’t relish the idea of getting in at this time of night. Martha hadn’t exactly been happy with him lately, but he tried to keep his marital problems where they belonged: at home and buried deep, deep down in his chest.  
  
Reynolds came around the corner with a jaunty little step that Greg hated immediately. It always meant trouble, and he simply wasn’t in the mood.  
  
“It’s your turn, mate,” Reynolds said gleefully, resting his arm on the top of Greg’s cubicle wall and winking cheekily at him. Greg groaned. “Got one in the cells downstairs. Rowdy one at that.”  
  
Greg liked his superior, really he did, but sometimes he just wanted to punch the man. “Why me?” Greg groaned, hoping it didn’t sound as whiny as he felt.  
  
“Looks to be your type,” Reynolds said with a smirk and patted Greg’s shoulder with bone-crushing force. Greg winced and drained the rest of his coffee.  
  
“Alright, alright. Why’s he here? Anything relevant I should know?”  
  
Reynolds’s cheerful demeanor dimmed a little as he clearly switched into DI mode. “Found him hanging around a murder scene, talking a little too much for comfort.” At Greg’s raised eyebrows, Reynolds shook his head ruefully. “Oh, he’s not a suspect if that’s what you’re thinking. Just rambunctious and a bit mouthy to be honest. I think Thomson brought him in out of pure spite. Something about insulting that new forensic analyst, Anderson, or something.”  
  
Greg smirked and shared a look with Reynolds. Philip was one of the academy’s leading pupils, but the lad was a total idiot about anything that involved living flesh.  
  
“Right,” Greg finally said, heaving himself out of his chair and rubbing his palms quickly over his face. It was the best he could do. “I’ll just…”  
  
Greg made his way down to the holding cells, equal parts dread and adrenaline. _Looks to be your type_ could mean anything from a drunk homeless bloke to a belligerent uni student. They’d been shuffling him towards the pinched ones an awful lot lately, and while Greg knew it was far from personal, he couldn’t help but feel like everyone was just unloading the rubbish onto the new recruit.  
  
‘Rowdy’ the DI had said, and Greg braced himself for the worst. When he came around the corner, however, he felt nothing but utmost confusion. There was only one holding cell occupied at the moment, and while the sight inside certainly wasn’t unique, the boy laying across the bed was hardly ‘rowdy.’ He was skinny to the point of absurd; cheekbones for days and legs to match. His skin had that waxy pallor that usually accompanied the worst kind of drug binges and Greg winced when he realized what Reynolds had meant: this was just the kind of bleeding-heart case Greg was finding himself fond of lately. He was lying calmly across the thin mattress with his arms crossed over his chest, hands steepled beneath his chin as though he was praying, but Greg sincerely doubted that. He looked to be no older than nineteen and Greg sighed at the implication. He was dressed in a set of decent trousers and what had once been a nice white shirt, but which now harbored a few blood stains and a smear of dirt or two. He was also sporting the beginnings of quite the shiner and Greg winced in sympathy. The kid had obviously been in an altercation of sorts, which didn’t surprise Greg in the least.  
  
“I’m not a rentboy,” the lad said, and Greg was startled at the low, rumbling quality of his voice.  
  
“I’m sorry?” Greg said stupidly.  
  
“I’m not a rentboy. I’m a student.” The kid turned his head and pinned Greg with a piercing stare, his eyes focused and almost abrasively sharp, despite the fact that his pupils were mere pinpricks even in the low light. Greg felt frustration cloud his face and tried to maintain a professional attitude.  
  
“Yeah, well. That’s not why we brought you in.”  
  
“No,” the boy agreed, raking his gaze up and down Greg’s body in a move that was far more intrusive than it should be. Greg felt absurdly exposed suddenly, as if this kid with his twitchy fingers and coked-out brain could strip him bare in mere minutes. He ignored the frisson of heat that shivered up his spine at the thought. _Christ_ , he needed some sleep.  
  
“Your wife is having an affair,” the boy said decisively after a moment and Greg felt his attention snap back into solid focus.  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“Your wife. She’s having an affair.” The lad swung his long, _long_ legs over the bench and stood, wobbling only for a moment before he straightened to his not-inconsiderable height. He moved forward with all the unfair elegance of a dancer and only stopped when he was a breadth away from the bars. Greg could smell his aftershave: spicy and subtle, and far too expensive for a teenaged junkie.  
  
“You suspected yourself, didn’t you?” the lad continued. Greg knew he should take a step back, to put some distance between himself and this enthralling temptation standing only inches away from him, but he could feel the kid’s breath skitter across his skin with every damning word, his voice a sinuous curve of rumbling heat and inexplicable promise. He cocked his head to the side and Greg was momentarily distracted by the tilt of his ludicrously plush lips as he smirked up at his captor, clearly enjoying the effect. “Having problems at home Detective Inspector?”  
  
“Not a DI,” Greg corrected automatically, startled at how husky his own voice sounded.  
  
“Mmm,” the kid hummed, pressing himself even closer to the bars. Greg had never been gladder of the stiff metal barrier. “Not yet, perhaps.”  
  
Greg’s brow furrowed in confusion. He felt oddly off kilter with this kid, as though he could read more in a glance than the average detective, and the thought rankled. He glanced down at the paperwork in his hands and cleared his throat meaningfully.  
  
“Now then Mister,” Greg squinted at the scrawling handwriting, “Holmes, is it? Why don’t you tell me what it was you were doing at a closed crime scene, and we’ll see if we can get you sorted and on your way?”  
  
“Sherlock,” the kid said, his voice a low purr that made Greg shiver slightly where he stood.  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“My name is Sherlock,” the boy rumbled and Greg found himself captivated by those hypnotic eyes. God, he could use a cigarette, some food and a sleep. Not necessarily in that order. He shook himself roughly and pointed a stern glare towards the kid. Holmes watched him through his dark lashes; the perfect picture of coy seduction. _Too_ perfect. Greg sighed.  
  
“Thought you said you weren’t a rentboy,” Greg said frankly. Sherlock Holmes quirked one elegant eyebrow at him and smirked.  
  
“I’m not. That doesn’t mean I don’t have… interests.” He raked his blue-grey gaze down Greg’s form again, pausing significantly at the front of his trousers and licking his lips obscenely. Greg fought not to roll his eyes at the obvious display.  
  
“Oi. Drop the act, kid. I know what it is you’re trying to do, but it won’t work on me.”  
  
The lascivious look slid off of Holmes’ face faster than Greg could blink, replaced instantly by a scowl of melodramatic proportions. “You’re cleverer than your superiors. I’d ask for a pay raise.”  
  
Greg snorted before he could stop himself and was rewarded with a small twitch of the kid’s lips. It lightened his face and made him look years younger, and Greg felt like he had control of the situation again—finally. He glanced back down at the file in his hands, going over the various charges and wondering who had printed up this utter tripe.  
  
“So Sherlock,” Greg said amiably, tasting the way the kid’s name rolled over his tongue. It was posh and ridiculous and looked like it suited him perfectly. “Says here you were brought in for harassing an officer.”  
  
“Christ, is that useless waste of brain cells an officer?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
Greg couldn’t help the wry grin that spread across his lips and he put his head down swiftly to hide it from Sherlock. “Also says here you were obstructing justice,” he added, his eyebrows raising in surprise.  
  
“I wasn’t obstructing, I was _observing_ ,” Sherlock grumbled, flinging himself back onto the small mattress and rubbing absently at his left elbow.  
  
“Yeah? Do you want to tell me about it?” Greg asked, fixing his attention back on the boy who looked like he was working himself up into a right proper strop.  
  
“Not particularly,” Sherlock muttered, throwing his right arm up over his eyes and sighing towards the ceiling.  
  
“Alright,” Greg said, pulling a folding chair from the corner and plonking himself down into it. “Why don’t we talk about those track marks on your arm then, hm?”  
  
Sherlock’s left arm twitched, but he kept it across his ribs defiantly, turning his head to glare at Greg in muted stubbornness. Greg sighed again.  
  
“Look, kid,” he started, rubbing a hand across his eyes in an attempt to pull together some patience. “It’s horrifically late. I’d like to go home and get some sleep. You don’t want to be here and neither do I, so why don’t we make this easy, yeah?”  
  
“You won’t believe me,” Sherlock said flatly, and Greg was startled at the bitter resentment in his tone.  
  
“Try me.”  
  
Sherlock exhaled loudly and sat up again, narrowing his eyes at Greg for a long moment before he began: “It wasn’t a murder-suicide. It was a murder-murder.”  
  
Greg stared at him in shock for two solid seconds before he looked back down at the paperwork in his hands. “How do you figure?”  
  
Sherlock paused, his mouth agape for a moment before he shut it with an audible click. He watched Greg for a few tense seconds before he took a deep breath. “The angle of the splatter pattern on the wall indicates that there was a struggle. Blood that high up on the walls means the gun was pointed upwards and to the left, statistically unlikely for anyone blowing their own brains out to hold a gun at such an uncomfortable angle, especially since the second victim was left-handed.”  
  
“The blood could be from the first victim,” Greg said, looking at the pictures in the file.  
  
Sherlock scoffed and stood up, pacing back and forth while his mouth kept on running a mile a minute. “Don’t they teach you anything in that academy of yours? Of _course_ it couldn’t be from the first victim. Look at the trajectory of the bullet. She was shot square in the forehead and at her slight height and build, it would take an unnatural amount of force to splatter that high over that considerable a distance. Her killer was taller than her; obvious if you look at the angle in which she was shot. The wound points down towards the back of her skull, not up at the wall.”  
  
Greg was following along eagerly, noting that the kid was absolutely right. He wondered how the rest of the team could have missed all these clues, so obvious even an untrained teenager could see them.  
  
“Look at the photo of the second victim’s hands. The powder burns there are too clean, too perfect. Forensics will confirm that the bullets fired in that room came from the gun in the man’s hand, but he wasn’t the one who fired them.”  
  
“No?” Greg asked absently.  
  
“Obviously not,” Sherlock sneered. “The gun was planted on him. Whoever the killer is, he wanted to make sure the victims were found together in that room. You’re looking for a man in his mid-to-late twenties, roughly fifteen stone going by the indents in the carpeting; between six-one and six-two in height, but he would appear taller since his shoes add a significant inch.”  
  
“Hang on,” Greg interrupted, rifling through the photos in an effort to keep up. “How could you possibly know the killer’s age and height and what kind of bloody _shoes_ he wears?”  
  
Sherlock levelled a despondent glare at Greg and huffed in annoyance. “Look at the footprints in the carpet pile. It’s not a difficult deduction.”  
  
“Clever,” Greg nodded, watching as the kid paused slightly mid-step before pacing back towards the bed. Greg cocked his head to the side, taking in the kid’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes. He looked entirely focused, despite the drugs obviously coursing through his veins. “You’re enjoying this,” Greg observed idly. Sherlock flushed an even deeper shade of pink and looked away quickly, perching himself on the edge of the mattress and glaring down at his muddy shoes.  
  
“What the hell is a smart kid like you doing in a dodgy part of town at one AM on a Wednesday night?” Greg asked sotto-voce. Sherlock bristled defensively and Greg couldn’t miss the way his arms crossed tightly across his slender chest. He looked suddenly nervous and small, as though he were trying to hide something and Greg’s suspicions turned to sour reality. He took in Sherlock’s twitchy muscles and thin face, wondering just how long the kid had been in the clutches of cocaine. Not long by the looks of it, but Greg had seen this slippery slope before. It made his heart sore to see such a bright young lad throwing everything away just to chase a dull high. Greg sighed and scratched absently at the back of his neck.  
  
“Tell you what,” Greg started, getting up off of his chair and folding it away against the wall. “I’ll run this by the DI and see if I can’t get you out of here in the next few hours. You got a place to go?” he added with a tiny bit of trepidation.  
  
Sherlock’s head snapped up at that and he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What about…” he trailed off, rubbing at his arms in a nervous gesture that told Greg he was probably itching for a hit.  
  
“I’m gonna let you go this time with a stern warning,” Greg said, raising his eyebrows significantly as the kid stared at him in clear disbelief. “ _But_ ,” Greg emphasized, “I don’t want to see you in here again, yeah? You clean yourself up, finish your studies and I might be able to see what I can do for your future.”  
  
Sherlock peered at him through a curtain of dark curls, his head slightly tilted to the side as he looked over Greg with a hint of begrudging respect. Greg allowed the scrutiny, invasive and uncomfortable as it was. For some ungodly reason, he felt weirdly responsible for the kid’s welfare, and he wondered absently if he should get his head examined.  
  
“Why are you helping me?” Sherlock asked eventually.  
  
“God help me, I’m not entirely sure,” Greg huffed with a sardonic smile. He gave an unwilling chuckle and stuck his hand through the bars, an open invitation. Sherlock stared down at his hand, a look of utmost hesitation etched across his features before he cautiously slid his warm palm into Greg’s grip, pumping once before letting go. Sherlock’s face split into a sudden and blinding grin, and Greg was thrown for a moment at the brilliance of it.  
  
“I’ll see what I can do,” Greg promised and turned towards the staircase, feeling as though something incredibly momentous had just occurred.  
  
“Thank you, sergeant,” Sherlock called after him and Greg turned to look over his shoulder.  
  
“Lestrade,” he called back with a real smile. “Greg Lestrade.”  
  
“Thank you, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, holding his gaze for a few breathless seconds.  
  
“My pleasure, Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
: :  
  
Ten years passed without even a hint of the boy Greg had met in the holding cell that random Wednesday night. He’d found himself glancing around crime scenes for a few months after in hopes of catching the kid again, but Sherlock Holmes remained nothing more than a fleeting memory. Meanwhile, Greg’s career had taken off significantly. His dedication, attention to detail and sheer cheek made him the favorite for the new DI position, but he tried to remain as humble as he could. He didn’t want to jinx his chances, after all, and nothing ever came of an overinflated ego.  
  
He found himself staring into a cup of coffee again, trying desperately to connect the dots of this murder with the last four victims they’d found; a sociopathic serial killer with no notable motive and no traceable patterns. The only thing keeping the murders linked was a shady MO and Greg’s gut instinct. In other words, nothing that would hold up in court, even if they did manage to catch the bastard responsible.  
  
“Anything new?” a female voice asked over his shoulder. Greg grimaced and shook his head, turning to look up at Sally with a sad little smile. She was fairly new to the force, but Greg liked her. She kept her head even in the grisliest of murder scenes and could always be counted on for a fresh perspective when Greg was feeling lost. She smiled back reassuringly and handed over a large Starbucks cup, which Greg accepted gratefully with a groan of pleasure.  
  
“Christ, you’re a saint,” he breathed, opening the lid and inhaling the intoxicating scent of caramel and dark roast.  
  
“Thought you could use a little pick-me-up,” Sally said, tipping her own cup towards his in a mock salute. “The coffee they brew here is shite, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”  
  
“Cor, I’m not gonna argue,” Greg murmured lovingly into his cup. It was sweet and strong with a hint of delicious cream and smooth caramel. He tried not to moan inappropriately, but judging by the amusement on Sally’s face, he’d probably failed. She smiled down into her own cup and cleared her throat.  
  
“Sorry to say, sir, but I’m here on business.”  
  
Greg grinned ruefully at her. “I knew it wasn’t all out of undying devotion,” he sighed, shooting her a look of feigned heartbreak. She snorted and swatted at his arm with casual affection.  
“Had to butter you up first,” she smirked, but her face sobered almost immediately. “Thomson sent me to find you, sir. Says he’s got a junkie in cell four asking for you by name.”  
  
“Christ,” Greg said, taking a delicious mouthful of his macchiato before abandoning it sadly on his desk. With any luck, he’d be back before it cooled completely. Sally gave him a sympathetic look and patted his shoulder gently.  
  
“I’d get down there soon, sir,” she said softly. “They raided a crack den and the kids are getting restless. Had to separate a few of them already for fighting.” She raised her eyebrows at him with clear inference, and he felt a stab of trepidation claw through his chest.  
  
Greg nodded and swept down the stairs, ignoring the cat-calls and general noise of the other cells before stopping in front of four. There was a surly crowd in there already, all of them in various states of intoxication and Greg tried not to wince at the reek of stale sweat and vomit.  
  
“Enough,” Greg barked, his voice sure and clear through the haze of riotous noise. The crowd quieted a little and Greg scanned the bunch, trying to pick out which of them might know his name. He had a bad feeling he knew what this was about, but he wanted to give it the benefit of the doubt before he went leaping to conclusions. He was about to give it up as a bad job when he spotted him: curled into a protective ball at the back of the cell, bleeding from one corner of his mouth and clearly trying to make himself as small a target as possible.  
  
“Sherlock?” Greg said quietly and the lad looked up sluggishly.  
  
Greg had to stifle a gasp. If Greg hadn’t known it was him, he never would have recognized Sherlock Holmes. His face was bone-pale and gaunt, his hair hanging lank around his dull, lifeless eyes. He looked like he’d aged twenty five years in the past ten and Greg felt his stomach curdle as he took in the frail, trembling man before him. Greg’s jaw hardened and he started forward, noting with disgust the way Sherlock struggled to unfold himself from the floor.  
  
He was an utter mess: his clothes torn and sagging, his skin appearing to stretch too tightly along his bones as he picked his way carefully across the floor. He eyed Greg warily before swiping at the blood on his lip with the back of his wrist, adding a dark crimson stain to the already filthy hoodie around his thin frame.  
  
“Took you long enough,” Sherlock muttered, his voice sounding shaky and blunt. Greg’s expression darkened and he swore under his breath. Sherlock held his glare, though Greg saw that his eyes held none of their former brilliance. He looked exhausted and lost, and Greg’s heart clenched tightly in his chest at the waste.  
  
“Thought I told you to clean yourself up,” Greg stated, irrationally proud of how steady his voice sounded. Sherlock huffed and shrugged, scratching absently at his left arm and not meeting the detective’s eyes.  
  
“Sherlock?” Greg intoned, raising his eyebrows as Sherlock avoided his accusing gaze.  
  
“Helps me think,” Sherlock mumbled and Greg craned his neck closer to hear.  
  
“Come again?”  
  
“It helps me think,” Sherlock ground out between gritted teeth, glaring defiantly up at Greg through the greasy curls over his forehead. Greg’s eyebrows shot up at the explanation, folding his arms over his chest in an unconsciously defensive posture.  
  
“That right,” he said shortly, sucking at his teeth momentarily and trying to keep his temper in check. He was _disappointed_ in Sherlock, as ridiculous as that sounded and he felt marginally betrayed. “Thinking clearly now, are you?”  
  
Sherlock huffed and looked down at his feet, the fingers of his right hand fidgeting with the tatty end of his sweatshirt sleeve. “I may have gotten… carried away,” he finally grumbled.  
  
Greg sighed and swiped a hand over his face. “I can’t help you on this one, Sherlock,” he said eventually. “You’re an adult, and a smart one at that-- at least you used to be.” Sherlock looked up sharply at that, his face a mixture of startled hurt and frustrated offence. Greg held his gaze with eyebrows raised until Sherlock sighed and nodded once, his posture relaxing back into subdued chastisement.  
  
Greg exhaled in frustration and snatched the file from the corner desk, rifling through it quickly until he found the relevant paperwork.  
  
“Good news is, they didn’t find anything on you,” Greg said slowly, disbelief evident in his tone as he swept a calculating glance over Sherlock’s twitching form. Sherlock had the audacity to smirk at him, but the expression melted away instantly as Greg’s glare intensified. He snapped the file closed decisively.  
  
“I don’t know what you expect me to do about this, kid,” Greg stated plainly. “Narcotics aren’t my division. Best I can do is put in a good word for you, but I’m honestly not sure how much weight it’ll hold against such overwhelming evidence. What the hell were you thinking?” Greg closed his eyes in frustration, biting his tongue against the scathing tirade he longed to dole out. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, opening his eyes for one final glare before he turned and walked away, slapping the file to the desk on his way.  
  
“You’ll never catch him on your own,” Sherlock called after him, stopping Greg dead in his tracks. He turned slowly, watching as Sherlock clung to the bars, the rest of the crowd studiously avoiding Greg’s gaze as he moved back towards the cell.  
  
“Excuse me?” Greg said, deadly calm as he stopped once more in front of Sherlock.  
  
“Your serial killer,” Sherlock said steadily, his confidence belied only by the tremor in his voice. “He’s getting bolder, messier, yet you still don’t have any leads. He’s taunting you and you know it.”  
  
Greg clenched his jaw and regarded the slip of a man before him: Sherlock was no longer the skinny, misguided teenager he had been when Greg first met him. He looked careworn and rough, as though he’d been living on the streets for a fair while before he was collared tonight and Greg wondered what had happened to put him in such dire circumstances. The obvious answer was drugs, but Greg could tell there was something else at work here; something that tugged at his gut instinct and made him look again. Yes, Sherlock was filthy and clearly high as a kite, but upon closer inspection, he appeared far healthier than Greg had originally thought.  
  
“I can help,” Sherlock whispered urgently.  
  
Greg narrowed his eyes and weighed his options. After a few minutes of intense silence, he craned his neck towards the wall and shouted: “Noggs. I need this prisoner transferred to interview room two, if you please.”  
  
Sherlock’s expression lightened immediately, but Greg caught him before he could move, his hand darting through the bars to pull roughly at the front of his disgusting hoodie. “If you’re talking bollocks at me, Holmes, there’ll be no end to your sentence. I’ll not lift a finger when they ask and you’ll be charged the full time for possession and usage, understand?”  
  
Sherlock’s face hardened, but he nodded once in affirmation, standing to the side obediently as Noggs came over to let him out. He slouched after Greg in silence, though Greg could feel his eyes on the back of his head the whole way. It felt itchy and abrasive; that now-familiar intrusive gaze that seemed to see everything in one mean sweep. The minute they stepped into the closed room, however, the placid demeanor vanished in an instant.  
  
“All of your victims have one thing and one thing only in common,” Sherlock said with bold confidence. Greg sat down at the table and gestured him to go on. “They were all purchasing drugs from the same dealer. The same one, in fact, whose home you just raided this afternoon.”  
  
Greg sat up straighter, pulling his file closer and flipping through the pages absently. “There’s no proof of that, Sherlock. Not even a little bit.”  
  
“Look who he’s targeting,” Sherlock insisted, coming to sit opposite Greg and stabbing a finger at the victims’ photographs. “Rentboys, uni students, businessmen. All common users, but none of them registered. I guarantee that if you run a tox screen on each of them, the results will all test positive for cocaine.”  
  
Greg sent him a speculative look, glancing back through the evidence with a skeptical eye. He found the tox screens of victims one and four, but didn’t have the results of the other three in the file. True enough, both tested positive for cocaine, though the first had arguably miniscule traces.  
  
“Alright,” Greg conceded, “Let’s say you’re right and this guy is targeting cocaine users. That doesn’t give us much to go on, and how could you possibly know which drug dealer they’re all scoring from?”  
  
Sherlock gave him a loaded look and thumbed through the rest of the photos. Greg watched him in fascination until he was pulled up short by Sherlock’s apparently puzzled expression.  
  
“Where is the sixth?”  
  
“Sorry?” Greg said, curious in spite of himself.  
  
“The sixth victim; the rentboy from Hampstead with the gap tooth and gambling addiction.”  
  
Greg blinked at him in confusion. “There wasn’t a sixth. We’re not even positive there was a fifth. We have nothing tying these victims together except the level of brutality and a hunch.”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t say nothing,” Sherlock said with an infuriating smirk. Greg felt the edges of his mouth curl up of their own volition, but he tried to hold rein on his baffled amusement.  
  
There was a sudden knock on the door and Sally hurried in, stalling out once she noticed Sherlock sitting across from Greg. “Sir,” she said sharply, eyeing Sherlock warily and tilting her head towards the hall. Greg huffed out a sigh and followed her out the door, holding back a chuckle at her wry bemusement.  
  
“Lab’s found something,” Sally started, her tone strident.  
  
“Let me guess.” Greg blew out a long breath. “Rentboy from Hampstead?”  
  
Sally’s jaw dropped and she looked at him in complete shock. “How in bloody hell did you know that?”  
  
Greg just smiled and shook his head, taking the new file from Sally and glancing at the lab results. Positive for cocaine, along with heavy doses of rohypnol and GHB. “Who would use a date rape drug on a rentboy?” he mused aloud. Sally was looking through the tinted window towards Sherlock, who was busy rifling through the rest of the crime scene photos and fidgeting irritably where he sat.  
  
“Erm, sir?” Sally asked pointedly, and Greg followed her gaze.  
  
“It’s a long story, Sally.”  
  
Her eyes sharpened and she glanced up at him briefly, her gaze full of hesitation. “Rentboy from Hampstead,” she repeated. “You get that information from him?”  
  
Greg blew out a long breath and rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s kind of hard to explain,” he started lamely.  
  
“How do we know he’s not a suspect?” Sally’s face was full of wary suspicion and Greg tried to hold back his knee-jerk reaction to defend a man he’d met only twice in the past decade.  
  
“We don’t,” Greg finally replied with a shrug. “But I’ll tell you this: without him we’ve got nothing.”  
  
Sally bit the inside of her cheek, her face pinched and serious, her posture closed off and defensive. “I don’t like it,” she muttered, hugging her elbows and regarding Sherlock with obvious distaste.  
  
“Yeah, well,” Greg started, shouldering his way past her and grasping at the door handle. “You don’t have to.”  
  
“Sir,” Sally protested, stopping the door with a firm hand pressed flat to the wood. “How did he know?”  
  
“You’ll have to ask him,” Greg replied with a cheeky wink.  
  
: :  
  
Greg glanced at the GPS on his dash, cursing at the early evening traffic in Westminster. How the hell Sherlock could afford a place in the center of London, Greg had no idea, but traffic was a nightmare and he was getting desperate. With a muffled curse, he flipped on his lights, noting with satisfaction how the cars simply melted out of his way. He checked his texts one more time and stopped his car right in front of 221 Baker Street.  
  
He left the car running and ran up to the door, slightly startled when it opened easily to his touch. Sherlock said he lived in flat B, so Greg dashed up the stairs two at a time, finding himself at the threshold of a rather quaint sitting room.  
  
Sherlock was standing at the window, posh as ever in his bespoke suit, looking infinitely more put together than Greg ever could, even on his best day.  
  
“Where,” Sherlock demanded, and Greg gave an internal sigh of relief.  
  
“Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.”  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”  
  
Greg fought a grin, gratified yet again for this infernal man and his outrageous brilliance. “You know how they never leave notes?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyelid twitched. “Yeah?”  
  
“This one did.” He knew he’d sparked Sherlock’s interest, and he had to bite back the rush of impatience as Sherlock’s focus began to turn inward. “Will you come?” he urged, hoping he didn’t sound as frantic as he felt.  
  
“Who’s on forensics?” Sherlock queried, his face a mask of concentrated interest. Greg winced.  
  
“Anderson.”  
  
Sherlock physically grimaced. “Anderson won’t work with me.”  
  
“Well, he won’t be your assistant,” Greg added apologetically.  
  
“I _need_ an assistant,” Sherlock stated firmly.  
  
Greg sighed again and gritted his teeth. “Will you come?” he asked again, knowing he was pleading with the devil himself, but unable to find an alternative. If he needed to throw Anderson out of the room, he’d do it if it meant Sherlock would help him on this.  
  
“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”  
  
Greg let out a rush of breath. “Thank you.” He glanced once more around the room, noting the older woman who could only be the housekeeper and a gentleman who looked entirely out of place. Greg swallowed his confusion, however, and left with a curt nod, knowing intrinsically that Sherlock would follow.  
  
Forty-five minutes later and Greg was tapping his foot, wondering what on earth was taking the consultant so goddamned long. Greg had arrived ten minutes ago and gotten the run-down from the officer on duty, but the details were hazy at best and he was getting restless and irritable.  
  
“Donovan, what’s your twenty?” Greg snapped into the radio, wondering if he should just put on a coverall and go up alone.  
  
“Perimeter, sir,” came the static-filled response and Greg felt his stomach clench with anxiety.  
  
“Any sign of him?” Greg huffed into the speaker.  
  
“Negative,” Sally said dryly. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”  
  
“Donovan,” Greg growled into the mouth piece, and he could practically hear her eyes rolling over the radio waves. He waited two more minutes before giving in and stepping into the uncomfortable blue cotton. Sherlock could just follow him up when he got there.  
  
“Freaks here. Bringing him in,” Sally clipped over the radio and Greg let out a harsh breath he hadn’t known was caught in his chest. He waited impatiently for Sherlock to enter the building, fumbling a bit with the sleeves of the coverall. He heard the telltale footfalls of the tall arsehole and was just about to clip out a curt, sarcastic greeting when his words died in his throat.  
  
Sherlock was not alone. In all the years Greg had known the man, he’d never once shown up to a crime scene with an escort. Greg blinked in surprise and gazed at the man in question. He looked vaguely familiar and Greg was startled to realize it was the same man who had been sitting in the flat at Baker Street. He was staring around the building with an air of polite curiosity, leaning heavily on a medical grade cane and obviously trying to stay out of everyone’s way.  
  
Sherlock pointed to the stack of coveralls on the makeshift table and nodded towards the man. “You need to wear one of these.”  
  
“Who’s this?” Greg asked, trying hard to move past his initial shock, but knowing he sounded just as dumbfounded as he felt.  
  
“He’s with me,” Sherlock stated, as though that was answer enough. Greg’s expression darkened, and he threw a pointed glance at Sherlock.  
  
“But who _is_ he?”  
  
Sherlock shot him a harsh look and Greg was taken aback at the fierceness in his gaze. “I _said_ he’s with me,” Sherlock muttered sharply.  
  
Greg’s eyebrows soared at the implication and he darted a quick glance between the two of them, noting absently the way Sherlock’s ears tipped with the faintest pink at the scrutiny. He tamped back an inappropriate grin and watched as the man began the arduous task of climbing into a set of coveralls.  
  
Dr Watson, it turned out, was a force to be reckoned with. His obvious admiration of Sherlock’s abilities had Greg in his corner from the first, but he also seemed to have Sherlock’s respect, and Greg wondered if the good doctor knew exactly how difficult that was to obtain. Greg hoped the man knew what he was getting himself into, but he somehow doubted it.  
  
Greg watched them from his perch in Sherlock’s armchair, feeling slightly voyeuristic as their gazes locked and held; the tension so thick between them, Greg could have sliced it and eaten it on toast. He’d never seen Sherlock act like this-- all embarrassed silences and curbed insults. It was a marvel to watch and Greg found himself unable to keep the gnawing guilt at bay that he might have overstepped with this unannounced ‘drugs bust.’ Watson held his own, though, keeping pace with the overgrown adolescent and giving back as good as he got, as far as Greg could tell. He exchanged a look with Sally, meeting her thinly veiled contempt with a grin of genuine amusement. He liked this Watson bloke, and hoped with a sinking sense of foreboding that Sherlock would not do something to cock it up entirely.  
  
It wasn’t a comforting hope.  
  
: :  
  
“John,” Greg answered cheerfully, tucking his mobile into the crook of his neck and reaching for his coffee.  
  
“Greg,” John said shortly and Greg felt his grin widen at the exasperated tone in his voice.  
  
“What can I do for you, mate?”  
  
“Taking you up on that pint, actually,” John sighed and Greg couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. “If you’re available, that is,” John added hastily, sounding braced for disappointment.  
  
“Always available to help a friend,” Greg responded kindly. “How’s six thirty at your local?”  
  
“Brilliant. Ta very much.”  
  
Greg chuckled again and ended the call, sorting his paperwork into stacks according to importance and slugging back the remainder of his coffee. He was looking forward to this more than he should, he knew, but somehow he thought it would be worth it.  
  
  
“Alright,” Greg said, depositing a pint of ale in front of John and taking a healthy swallow of his own as he collapsed into the awaiting booth. “What’s Himself done this time then?”  
  
John smiled ruefully into his drink and took a generous gulp. “Jesus, Greg, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”  
  
Greg let out a bark of laughter and felt himself relax into the seat, the remaining stress of the week seeming to melt from his shoulders with every passing second. He liked John— _really_ liked him in that brothers-in-arms way he sometimes got with members of his team. He and John were like a combined force field; dulling the acerbic tones and whip-like deductions from the great and mighty Sherlock Holmes, and Greg was grateful for John’s calming influence on the detective. It was nice to have a proper friend to commiserate or get occasionally drunk with, and Greg held his glass up for a full salute.  
  
“To Sherlock Holmes: the most infuriating prat to ever breathe,” Greg said, trying for a serious tone, but knowing he’d missed by a considerable margin. John chuckled and clinked his glass along.  
  
“I’ll drink to that,” John laughed, downing half of his pint in one and Greg felt his eyebrows rise in spite of himself. John just gave him a long-suffering look and sank back into his seat, cradling his glass as though it held the elixir of life. His cheerful expression faded slightly, though, and Greg found himself curious despite his better judgment.  
  
“I just don’t understand why he objects so strongly to my having a life that involves any kind of sanity,” John grumbled eventually into his ale. Greg let out a low whistle through his teeth and sat back in his own seat, sipping idly from his pint and wondering how honest he should be here.  
  
“Listen John,” he finally said, draining his glass and plunking it onto the table decisively. “You didn’t know him before… well, _before_. Trust me, the world is a better place with you in his life.”  
  
John smiled half-heartedly and drained his glass, wiping the back of his wrist across his mouth in a determined gesture and waving at the bartender for a refill. Greg regarded him speculatively for a moment before upending his own glass, draining it just in time for the next round to arrive. They made idle small talk in the ensuing hour, ranging everything from the latest rugby scores to John’s aspirations towards his own practice someday. Greg let the chatter rush over him with a calming sense of familiarity, noting that no matter what topic he suggested, it always seemed to wind down into John complaining about Sherlock.  
  
“I mean, Jesus Christ, Greg. Why do I even put up with him?” John whinged, draining his fourth pint and clunking it down to the table with a decisive thud.  
  
“Cause he’s fucking brilliant and an incredible thing to watch,” Greg said solemnly, wondering if he dared push it. He swallowed the last of his lager, signaling to the bar for two more before deciding on recklessness. “Have you noticed the way he moves? Every single step is calculated, like a bloody dance.”  
  
John gave a small huff of laughter and nodded thankfully as the barkeep dropped off their new glasses. “He’s not always that ridiculously graceful, you know,” John smirked casually, only slurring a little as he brought his pint up to his lips. “He’s a fucking mess most of the time, in fact. That cold, hard indifference is just an act he puts on when he’s out in the real world. You should see him swanning around the flat in just a sheet for fuck’s sake.”  
  
Greg was drunk, but not nearly far gone enough to ignore the slight flush that crept up John’s neck as he spoke. Despite what Sherlock thought, Greg was an outstanding detective in his own right, even if he was riding the comfortable buzz of inebriation.  
  
“Just a sheet, eh?” he murmured conspiratorially, watching as John’s flush moved up to his ears. “Bet that’s a sight. Tall bloke like him? Legs for days and an arse just begging to be slapped.”  
  
“Ugh, god, I _know_ ,” John whined into his pint, and Greg nearly crowed in triumph. John caught his wolfish expression and his entire face balked for a moment before he dropped his glass to the table and buried his face in his hands. Greg chuckled good-naturedly and clapped his hand on John’s shoulder a few times in friendly commiseration.  
  
“Fucking hell,” John mumbled through his fingers. “Can we just… _not_ talk about it. Ever.”  
  
“Sorry, John, but this is too good. I think I might’ve won the office pool.”  
  
John’s look of utter horror was too much and Greg found himself doubled over in laughter, clutching at John’s shoulder like a lifeline. John’s face cracked a little and then they were both off again; rolling waves of genuine amusement steeped in alcohol and camaraderie.  
  
“Oh, Christ. Your face!” Greg wheezed, wiping at his streaming eyes with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, alright,” John snickered, grasping for his newly filled glass and sipping at it slowly.  
  
“I knew the whole ‘I’m not gay’ thing was just an act,” Greg huffed around a mouthful of laughter and lager.  
  
“I’m _not_ ,” John protested, just like Greg knew he would. He snorted again and watched as John’s face did a complicated dance of emotions, landing somewhere between weary resignation and hopeful acceptance. “He’s just— _Christ_ , he’s—”  
  
“Fucking gorgeous?” Greg snickered into his pint, catching John’s look of wary hesitation and fighting back a full-blown laugh. “Don’t get me wrong, mate. He’s not my type, but a bloke can appreciate when another bloke is fit.”  
  
“God, is he fit,” John practically moaned, burying his face in his hands again and looking for all the world like the poster child for unrequited lust.  
  
“I mean,” Greg started, knowing he was pushing it, but unable to stop the brash hilarity at his friend’s predicament, “A man that skinny has no right to an arse that plush.”  
  
“Thank you!” John shouted, sitting up suddenly with his arms raised above his head in righteous dignity. Greg held back his raucous laughter, but only just. “Christ, Greg, sometimes he’ll be bending over to get something-- or even worse, at a _crime scene_ \-- and I just want to go over and _bite_ it,” John growled out between clenched teeth and Greg felt his eyebrows climb up towards his hairline at _that_ mental image.  
  
John seemed to realize what exactly he’d said a second later, his whole face flaming with sudden heat. He slumped forward on the table, his head resting dejectedly in the crook of his elbow as Greg patted him solidly on the back. His chuffed amusement faded slightly as he took in John’s defeated posture.  
  
“Hey now,” he said gently, tugging on John’s shoulder until the man sat back with the abject look of drunken misery, “He’s not immune to base humanity, you know.” John snorted derisively, but took the mostly empty glass Greg handed him with a nod of thanks. “Honestly, John, I’ve never seen him act this way around anyone else. It’s more than friendship on his end, I can promise you that.”  
  
John glanced up at him and the shameful hope coloring his eyes was enough to tug at Greg’s heartstrings. He knew on some fundamental level that he was right: Sherlock obviously cared about John in a way that far outstripped the normal confines of flatmates or even friends, but he knew that tonight, like this, John was not going to believe it until it came up and bit him in the arse.  
  
“Alright, mate. Time to go home, don’tcha think?” Greg asked, trying not to sound as patronizing as he feared. John just nodded and leaned over, trying for his wallet and nearly tumbling into Greg’s lap at the motion. Greg laughed again and propped him up against the booth, digging for his own wallet before settling the bill and ushering a slightly stumbling John out into the brisk night air.  
  
The cold was bracing at least, and Greg took a deep lungful of air, feeling a bit of the buzzy haze retreat as he took in the street surrounding them. The fresh air seemed to be having an adverse effect on John, however, who took one step and nearly collapsed into the street. He went from tipsy to plastered in a matter of seconds, wobbling dangerously for a moment before tipping to the side, almost dragging Greg down with him as he tried to catch himself. John hit the pavement hard with a ridiculous giggle and flailed around uselessly until Greg managed to heave him to standing again. Greg slid a shoulder under John’s arm, guiding him down the street in an unmistakable weave that left him glad he’d chosen a pub so close to Baker Street.

He paused at the light and fished in his pocket for his mobile, sending out a quick text before urging John forward. John was lolling hopelessly around, doing much more harm than good and Greg gritted his teeth against the sweep of friendly irritation as the familiar dark door of 221 loomed into view.  
  
“Oh, thank _god_ ,” Greg huffed with feeling, propping John against the doorjamb and pounding heavily on the door. It swung open almost immediately, revealing a disheveled looking Sherlock in just his pajamas and a flimsy looking dressing gown. He peered down his nose at the two of them, the imperious look of posh superiority slipping a little as he took in John’s inebriated state.  
  
“Honestly, Lestrade,” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes and moving forward to catch John just as he slid sideways off the landing. He managed to propel John up the short steps and into the doorway by sheer height advantage and Greg watched with undisguised humor as John swayed where he stood before faceplanting right into Sherlock’s chest with a contented little snuffle. One dark eyebrow lifted in surprise and Sherlock turned his startled gaze to Greg, who couldn’t help but shrug in baffled amusement.  
  
“Mmm, you smell good,” John murmured into Sherlock’s collar, nuzzling close and winding his arms around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock’s eyebrow climbed even higher up his forehead and he shot an accusatory glance at Greg before widening his stance and compensating for John’s listing weight.  
  
“Thank you, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said drily, bracing John against his side and sliding one long-fingered hand around his hip to steady the shorter man. “I’ll take it from here.”  
  
Greg nodded at the dismissal, turning away and raising his hand for a taxi. One nice thing about this posh address was the seemingly unending quantity of cabs when necessary, Greg mused fuzzily. The lumbering hulk of a black cab rounded the corner and slowed, and Greg turned to shout his goodbyes, but caught himself just in time. Instead he slid into the cheap leather seats, reciting his address with a cheerful grin, the image of Sherlock’s gentle face as he smiled down at John in plain affection warming him more than any alcohol ever could.  
  
: :  
  
Greg whistled through his teeth at the sight before him; grisly and violent nearly to the point of absurd. Their murderer had been on a bit of spree as of late and Greg felt every one of the long hours stretching ahead of him with no visible end in sight. He sighed and groped for his mobile, checking the time again with increasing impatience. Sherlock should be here by now, and the fact that neither he nor John were answering Greg’s texts made a shiver of unease slip across his skin like sandpaper.  
  
He sent one more quick “ _ETA??_ ” towards both of them and shoved the phone back into his pocket, accepting the nitrile gloves from Sally with a huff of frustration.  
  
“It’s unlike Holmes to be this uncommunicative,” Sally mused carefully. “Usually he’s proven every theory wrong ten times over by now.”  
  
Greg ground his teeth together, unwilling to divulge just how anxious he was, surrounded as they were by half of his team. Sally was watching him carefully, though, and her look of compassionate hesitation was enough to chill his blood. He shook himself firmly and soldiered forth to do his job, stroppy, absent consulting detectives notwithstanding.  
  
Twenty minutes later and they were still no closer to solving this than they had been the first three times the killer had struck, and Greg was beginning to get edgy. He marched back into the street, feeling the claustrophobic tug of nervous energy as he took a deep, shaky breath. Sally hovered in the doorway, watching him with a pinched expression, but she held her tongue as Greg began to pace restlessly back and forth. It was _entirely_ unlike Sherlock to completely ignore him like this. Something was clearly very wrong. He tugged his mobile from his pocket again, punching in Sherlock’s number by memory and holding his breath as the dial tone engaged; cursing when it went straight to answer phone.  
  
“Right,” Greg said shortly, feeling the harsh edge of panic begin to rise up the back of his throat. Sally gave him a loaded look, but shrugged plaintively and turned back towards the house.  
  
“When you find him, tell him he's an arsehole,” Sally said, clearly lacking the vitriol the words should have carried. Greg read the worry lined into her face and nodded in acceptance, peeling the gloves off with a quick gesture and marching steadily towards his waiting car.  
  
“Any developments—”  
  
“I’ll let you know, sir,” Sally called over her shoulder, shooing him away with a quick flick of her wrist.  
  
Greg swallowed thickly and pulled out of the car park, swerving around a suspiciously padlocked lorry and making his slow progress towards Baker Street. He could feel the tirade of words building up behind his teeth and hoped with no small sense of irony that he would get the chance to vent them.  
  
Baker Street was eerily quiet when Greg rounded the corner, parking his car in the emergency spot right in front of 221. He glanced up and down the street a few times before opening his door cautiously, tugging his gun out of its holster as he went. He crouched up the stairs and sucked in a breath as the handle turned easily, his alarm ratcheting up a few more notches. Slowly and carefully, he pressed the outer door open, creeping along the hallway, his ears trained sharply for any sound of distress. It was deathly silent in the house and Greg was just reaching for his radio to call for backup when he heard it: a sharp scrape like a heavy piece of furniture dragged across old wood flooring and a low, breathless grunt from the flat above.  
  
Greg was halfway up the stairs before he could even think, clicking the safety rapidly off his gun and mounting the remaining steps two at a time. He swung the unresisting door of B open quickly, glancing around the room until he froze solid in shock.  
  
Sherlock had John bent backwards over the kitchen table, his usually crisp trousers bunched halfway down his thighs, one sleeve of his open shirt slipping tantalizingly off the edge of his overly sharp shoulder blade. John was arching against the table, one leg wrapped tightly around Sherlock's back, the other braced against the table itself; their bodies rutting and slamming together in hard, juddering thrusts that had the table shaking with strain against the onslaught. Greg felt his entire body flush with shocked embarrassment, his gun falling useless to his side. John groaned loudly and Greg looked quickly away, but not before he saw John's fingers claw down Sherlock's back, Sherlock's spine arching forward with renewed passion as he growled and licked at the sweat beading on John's exposed collarbone.  
  
"Fucking _Christ_ ," Greg shouted belatedly, registering the way all movement stopped in his peripheral vision. He turned his back to the kitchen and tried not to listen to the slick, obscene noises of two grown men obviously dislodging themselves from whatever heathenistic position they’d gotten themselves into, followed by what sounded suspiciously like muffled giggles. Greg felt his shock turn rapidly into blinding rage and he shook his head violently to dislodge the images of two of his _mates_ having _sex._ He quickly tamped down the flare of unexpected and unwelcome arousal at the thought and concentrated instead on the sounds of rustling fabric and light footfalls across linoleum before he heard the door to the loo close with a quiet snick.  
  
“Well, that was rude,” Sherlock said casually, strolling into Greg’s line of vision, dragging a flannel down the side of his neck absently and regarding Greg with haughty aloofness, as though Greg hadn’t just walked in on him and John fucking like drunk uni students. Greg opened his mouth to retaliate, but was struck dumb yet again at the alarmingly appealing vision before him.  
  
Sherlock’s trousers were still unzipped, perched precariously just below his exposed hipbones; the long, sinewy line of his abdomen made almost tan by the frame of his unbuttoned white shirt. He was flushed and slick with a thin sheen of perspiration, his hair a halo of sweaty curls as he tossed his head to the side, flipping his fringe out of his eyes with a frustrated huff. He was watching Greg with a mixture of barely-concealed irritation and smug amusement, and Greg felt his face darken again with simultaneous embarrassment and anger. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, his gaze narrowing in familiar observation, but instead of the verbal tirade Greg was expecting, he merely smirked, pulling the flannel down his shoulder to his chest and arching slightly into the movement. Greg’s vision was drawn by the thin line of dark hair that descended from Sherlock’s navel down between the open panels of his fly, the bulge of his still-hard erection pressing insistently against the fabric, and he caught himself staring just in time to feel the crush of utter mortification.  
  
Sherlock snorted and dropped the flannel to the floor, turning on his heel and padding barefoot back into the kitchen just as the door to the toilet opened. John looked at least a little abashed, a dark pink flush travelling up the back of his neck to the very tips of his ears. He kept avoiding Greg’s gaze, though his stupidly besotted grin was telling enough that he didn’t really repent his actions nearly as much as he was pretending. He had dressed himself more or less normally and at least he had the common decency to do up his flies before asking Greg if he wanted tea.  
  
“No, I don’t want any bloody tea,” Greg ground out, holstering his forgotten gun and glaring at the pair of them. “If you’ve finished causing a public nuisance, there just happens to be a crime scene in want of attention.”  
  
“ _You_ barged into our flat unannounced, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock drawled, folding his arms across his chest and leaning casually back against the worktop. He was definitely within the lines of propriety, but the way he hovered near John— possessive and feral— was both heartwarming and terrifying in equal measure.  
  
“ _You_ weren’t answering your bloody texts,” Greg shot back, trying to ignore the way John’s shoulders were tensed with silent laughter.  
  
Sherlock’s eyebrow climbed slowly up his forehead. “And that evidently necessitated breaking into our flat at the most inconvenient time possible.”  
  
Greg huffed out an annoyed breath, biting back the plethora of scathing retorts on the tip of his tongue. If he was honest with himself, he was actually happy for the both of them. That being said, he certainly didn’t need to _see_ the clear bite marks at the base of John’s neck. He didn’t need to notice the way Sherlock’s cock was still mostly hard and thick beneath the thin layer of his fitted wool trousers. He didn’t need to think about the rush of confused desire that thrummed through his blood like fire.  
  
Greg cleared his throat and looked away quickly, hoping against hope that Sherlock would be too distracted by John to notice his unwilling arousal. He gave himself a mental slap and let his frustrated annoyance take over.  
  
“Are you just going to sit there all day and act all smugly superior, or are you going to come to this crime scene and help me out?” he huffed out eventually, crossing his arms over his chest in an unconsciously defensive gesture.  
  
Sherlock eyed him steadily for a moment before shrugging one bony shoulder and glancing at John. “We weren’t quite finished yet,” he rumbled, leaning slightly sideways and running his knuckles down John’s arm in a greedy, suggestive manner.  
  
“ _Sherlock_ ,” John hissed, swatting at his hip and turning finally to face Greg. “We’ll be there,” he said apologetically. “Sorry for worrying you, Greg.”  
  
Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, but straightened from his supine position and finally began refastening his clothing in sharp, irritated movements. The radio at Greg’s hip gave a harsh swell of static and Sally’s voice broke into the awkward silence: “Any news?”  
  
Greg sighed and released the clip, pulling the radio to his mouth and trying to conceal his own odd mixture of emotion. “Yeah. Nothing to worry about. Just being idiots as usual.”  
  
“Are they coming?” Sally crackled over the radio, bland annoyance clear in her brisk tone. Greg winced at the innuendo and barely managed to keep the hysterical tone from his answer, firmly ignoring the way Sherlock and John were practically gasping with breathless chuckles of their own. They were like children, the pair of them.  
  
“Not yet,” Greg huffed, unable to keep the grin from his face as John doubled over, leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder and burying his face into the man’s neck. Sherlock’s warm smile was entirely disarming and he slid his palm around John’s back with a casual intimacy Greg had never even imagined him capable of. It was oddly sweet in an entirely incongruous way and Greg found himself unable to hold on to his earlier anger.  
  
“Alright you two,” he stated plainly. “Get yourselves cleaned up and follow behind. I expect you at that house in fifteen minutes, or I’m sending Anderson to fetch you.”  
  
Greg grinned at Sherlock’s grimace of distaste and he waved off John’s stuttered, embarrassed apology with a wry chuckle. He took himself back down the stairs and into his car with a strange mixture of reluctance and cheery amusement. He tried to picture Anderson’s face if he’d walked in on what Greg had just witnessed, and startled himself with the bark of sharp, shocked laughter. Hilarious as it was, he really hoped it wouldn’t come to that.  
  
: :  
  
Greg sighed and shuffled through the swinging doors of the morgue, wondering if he had enough time to grab a coffee from the canteen before Sherlock was ready for him. John had texted an hour earlier and Greg had delegated as much as he could before following the command and chasing Sherlock’s endless stream of information towards the flat in Camden. It had already been a shit morning with all the promise of an even shittier afternoon and Greg felt like he was surviving on caffeine and frustration alone. He had just determined that a trip to the coffeemaker was necessary when he ran headlong into someone rounding the opposite corner, papers flying into the air like some kind of cartoon farce.  
  
“Oh!”  
  
“Shit. Sorry,” Greg grunted, automatically bending down to gather paperwork and files and nearly braining himself as the small woman he’d practically plowed over leaned forward to do the same thing. He caught himself just in time, rearing back and almost falling to the floor in his haste, reaching out in desperation and snagging his fingers on the starched fabric of a lab coat. One quick tug, a disgruntled scuffle later and Greg found himself flat on his back in the middle of the corridor with a surprisingly pleasant weight resting heavily across his chest.  
  
“Oh! I’m—”  
  
“Christ, sorry—”  
  
Soft brown eyes lifted to his own, a delicate blush coloring the crest of two slightly plump cheeks and Greg felt his heart give a pitiful little stutter in his chest. She was adorably flustered, stammering out apologies and self-recrimination in swift little huffs and Greg felt himself smiling without even thinking about it.  
  
“I really need to learn to watch where I’m going,” Greg chuckled softly. She blushed a bit deeper and moved to sit up, rolling to the side and getting to her feet with only a little bit of staggering. She offered her hand in assistance with an embarrassed sort of smile and Greg tried not to tug too hard as she heaved him to his feet.  
  
“Right,” he said eventually when the silence between them thickened to just shy of uncomfortable. “I’ll, er, just help you clean this up.”  
  
She ducked her head in thanks and gathered the closest papers to her chest, fussing around until they were all piled neatly in a stack again. Greg hesitated as he handed her the last of them, unwilling to let this encounter go without at least an introduction.  
  
“I’m Greg, by the way,” Greg blurted, hoping he didn’t sound half as ridiculous as he felt. “Greg Lestrade.”  
  
“Oh!” she gasped, her eyes widening in understanding. “You’re here for Sherlock.” At Greg’s raised eyebrow she continued, “I’m Molly. The pathologist?”  
  
Greg felt understanding slam through him like a runaway lorry. It was hard to equate the beautiful, unbearably shy woman before him with the professional, hardworking technician Greg knew her to be, but he kept his surprise to a minimum. He smiled at her and extended his hand, watching with slight amusement as she shifted the precarious stack of papers to one arm before sliding her small palm into his.  
  
It felt a little too good to stand here with Molly, cradling her hand in his and staring at the way her cheeks flushed pink as she ducked her head with a shy smile.  
  
“Well,” she said haltingly as the silence grew thick and loaded again. “We should probably… I mean—they’re waiting.”  
  
Greg felt his lips stretch into a slow grin and he squeezed her hand once before letting it drop from his own, the tingling warmth of unexpected attraction radiating from his fingers outwards as she turned and led the way towards the labs.  
  
Sherlock was bent over a microscope, John leaning solidly against the cabinet next to him, a gentle smile on his own face as he watched Sherlock work. Greg cleared his throat meaningfully and snickered as John jumped a little and turned towards them. Sherlock glanced up briefly before narrowing his eyes in familiar, stripping scrutiny.  
  
“Oh, finally,” Sherlock muttered with a huff, shifting his focus between Greg and Molly rapidly before absorbing himself once more in his slides. John’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he looked quickly between the two of them as well, catching Greg’s eye and giving him a look of startled approval.  
  
Greg let his mind drift a little as Molly moved forward, watching the capable way she carefully took over, manipulating Sherlock’s jumbled research with practiced ease and falling into a clipped, professional conversation with the impossible man. He thought of all the ways he’d been wrong about Sherlock and all the ways he still had to go, and wondered if there would ever be a time when the madman would stop surprising him.  
  
John caught his attention with a subtle tilt of his head and Greg grinned back, settling into his position as handler and moving forward to interfere as Sherlock began spitting out unsavory deductions with all the callous ease of a socially awkward genius. Molly just shrugged it off carelessly and eased closer, pointing out something on one of the slides and furrowing her brow in confusion as Sherlock argued his point with clipped, indifferent tones. She held her own easily, glancing up now and then and catching Greg’s eye with quiet, bashful smiles that had his stomach flipping like a fourth former with his first crush.  
  
Sherlock looked up sharply and caught his expression, a small smirk playing across his lips as he drawled out his answer. Greg just shrugged and smiled cheerfully back at him. Perhaps today wasn’t going to be as bad as he’d originally thought.  
  
  
  
  
 _You burn too bright  
You live too fast  
This can’t go on too long  
You’re a tragedy starting to happen  
~Red, Elbow _


End file.
